Bringing Baby Home Page 4

  “Not necessary.”

  He leaned over to position the plant correctly. Placement was everything in the landscaping business. Put the wrong plant in the wrong location and you wound up making work for yourself a few years down the road.

  “I know it isn’t necessary. I didn’t run over that plant on purpose. But I don’t want you to think that I’m a heartless fiend who purposely mows down defenseless succulents.”

  “It was a cactus.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. I’m trying to apologize here.”

  He leveled the dirt around the base of the plant then stood up. She was a good foot shorter than him, but she seemed taller. Maybe her no-nonsense attitude gave her added height.

  “As you said, no apology is required. I don’t like losing plants, but, hey, sh…stuff happens.”

  Liz was amused by his attempt to watch his language. She’d traveled with legions of men who’d cursed a blue streak regardless of the women and children in their company.

  “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I like what you’ve done so far on the street, and I wouldn’t mind picking your brain about how to make some cheap improvements to my landscaping. Key word in that sentence being cheap.” If her refinancing went through, she’d need most of the money for India, but she had to do something to keep the garden zealot next door off her back.

  He tugged on the brim of his odd hat. The gesture was less of escape from the sun as it was escape from her gaze. Why, she wondered? What does he have to hide? Her Romani sixth sense began to tingle. Not in a get-out-of-here-fast way, but in a this-is-intriguing way.

  “Please,” she said, giving him a smile she’d seen work for her sister Grace. “Just a glass of tea on my front porch. Surely, you’re entitled to a little break. The association is paying you by the job, not the hour, right?”

  He nodded in answer to her question, but still hadn’t agreed to join her for a cold drink. “It’s my own herbal blend.”

  His brows, which were two shades lighter than his mustache, moved together in question. “You grow herbs?”

  “No. I buy them from a wholesale distributor. Some are from India and some are Western.”

  “This is your business?”

  “One aspect of it. I’m a licensed physical therapist, but lately, I’ve started leaning more toward holistic healing—for a number of reasons.” Again, I’m giving him more information than he needs.

  “Come on,” she said, “you can be a taste tester for a new blend. I’m calling it Please, Refresh Me.” She felt her cheeks heat up. “A play on an old Engelbert Humperdinck song title. My mother was listening to a CD of his greatest hits the other day and the tune got stuck in my head. When it came time to name my tea…well, you get the idea.”

  She trotted ahead of him once she was certain he was following her. Unlike most of her neighbors’ more traditional homes, Liz’s house had a covered overhang that stretched from the wall of her garage to the corner of her living room. The house had been built on a concrete slab, of course, so this nook was nothing special, but she’d added some white pickets between the columns to give it a cottage feel.

  “Morning glories,” he said, lingering by the single step that led to her front door. “You don’t see those much.”

  “My mother gave me the seeds. She grows everything in her backyard. She has the only green thumb in the family. Have a chair. I’ll be right back with your tea.”

  David started to protest. He was dusty and grubby and her white plastic lawn chairs, though inexpensive, looked well cared for. Everything about the place, from the white rock borders to cobweb-free rafters said someone who lived here cared.

  He respected that. Too many of the people he worked for never seemed to enjoy the elaborate living art, which is how he thought of his masterpieces, once they had them. The landscaping was for their neighbors’ benefit, not their own. He would have resented their attitude if he hadn’t been the same way…in his old life. Too busy to see the roses, let alone smell them.

  “Here you go,” she said, returning.

  Elizabeth Radonovic. He knew her name from the roster of homeowners the head of the association had given him.

  She handed him a tall glass filled with dark amber liquid. No ice cubes. He found that curious.

  “I brewed this last night to test the blend and just finished putting the tea in bags. It’s been chilling all morning. Ice cubes dilute the efficacy of the herbs. I hope it’s not too sweet for your taste. The stevia leaf is one of my favorites, but it can be a bit much for some people.”

  She motioned him to take the chair in the shady corner of the overhang. To do otherwise would have been rude. His grandmother had stressed civility and manners above all else. He sat down, perching on the edge of the seat.

  “You don’t have to worry about getting these pads dirty. Nothing lasts long in the desert, which is why I don’t spend a lot of money on outdoor furniture. Besides, my roommates’cats love to sleep on these cushions. You’ll probably be covered in cat hair when you stand up.”

  Cats. He’d never given them much thought until one adopted him. “What kind are they?” he asked, bringing the glass to his lips.

  “The free kind.”

  Her grin truly was engaging and almost impossible to resist. He quickly took a sip of tea.

  The cool, instantly refreshing liquid exploded in flavors he couldn’t immediately identify. He ran his tongue across his teeth to recapture the taste. “Wow. This is great.”

  She blushed at the praise. “Do you like it? Really?”

  He took another drink, savoring the way it soothed his parched throat. “You should bottle it. You’d make a million.”

  “I could use a million,” she said softly. A sad look crossed her face.

  David wondered, but he didn’t ask. A person with secrets didn’t seek revelations from others. It just wasn’t fair since no information could be offered in return.

  She perked up a second later and set her glass on the little plastic table between them then she wiped her hand on her slacks and held it out between them. “I’m Liz Radonovic.”

  He had no choice but to shake her hand and say, “David.”

  “David what?”

  Good question. “David Baines.”

  “Nice to meet you, David. I felt badly about our run-in yesterday and I wanted to call and apologize, but you’re not an easy man to reach. How do you stay in business when you don’t have a phone? Crissy gave me the number of your answering service, but don’t most people in your line of work have cell phones?”

  He shrugged. “I get jobs by word of mouth. And I sell wholesale plants to nurseries. When I have seedlings available, I call them. Everything is on a cash basis. It’s simpler.”

  She smiled. “You’re trying to keep off Uncle Sam’s radar screen, huh?”

  Someone’s radar screen, that was sure. David didn’t know if Ray had people looking for him or not, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Who would be the least bit curious about a handyman who grew cacti and succulents, minded his own business and rarely talked to anyone?

  Until today, when he sat down to tea with a beautiful woman who reminded him of how much he’d walked away from. This was a mistake, he knew. Her smile was too normal, too inviting.

  “I’d better get back to work,” he said, standing up. He downed the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you. This was delicious.”

  She took the glass from him. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Reaching down beside her chair, she swiftly produced a small brown paper sack with a white label across the front. “Here,” she said, holding it by the crimped top. “This is my way of apologizing for being such a ninny yesterday. Please take it. My conscience has been bothering me something fierce.”

  A gift? No one had given him a gift in so long, he took it without thinking. Without speaking.

  Good Lord, he thought, as he hurried back to the safet
y of his truck, I really am a mannerless oaf.

  Liz watched David Baines almost run back to this truck. He reached in through the open window to put her gift on the seat, then walked to the rear of the vehicle and lowered the tailgate. He leaned over to pick up a hand trowel before returning to where he’d been working when she’d interrupted.

  He was intriguing. An anomaly. Refined language occasionally poked through an outwardly rough demeanor. At times, courteous and polite then moments later utterly lacking in finesse. His sandy brows that didn’t match his dark burly mustache were just the tip of the incongruities where David Baines was concerned.

  She heard the phone ring in the house behind her. Neither of her roommates would pick it up, she knew, so Liz got up and went inside.

  “Hello?”

  “Your mystery man’s name is David Baines. No wants or warrants. A perfect driving record.”

  Zeke. Damn. She’d meant to call him and tell him not to bother. “Um…thanks. I’m really sorry to be a pest.”

  Zeke didn’t say anything. The Rom in her told her there was more. “Hey, a clean driving record is a good thing, right? A girl can’t be too careful these days,” she joked. “You never know what kind of deviant might be lurking around the corner.”

  “I guess so,” Zeke said. “But I’m always suspicious when someone just seems to materialize out of thin air. I think I’m going to probe a little deeper.”

  Liz could have protested, but most of the cops she’d met over the years followed their instincts and rarely took advice from civilians. Besides, the guy was interesting. If anything came of this attraction she felt, then maybe being forewarned of any skeletons in his closet was a good thing.

  “WELL, LOOKEE HERE,” a gleeful voice said. “The flotsam has finally surfaced. Your hunch was right, boss. Paul really did fake his death in that fire. Well, at least, it looks that way. Somebody is putting out feelers for information on a guy that sorta matches Paul’s description. Same general age, height and weight. The hair and eyes don’t match, but we both know how easy it is to change that,” he added with a soft snicker. “Plus, it looks like he’s got a business growing plants. Wasn’t that one of the things you listed as a possible career choice if he tried to start over some place else?”

  The man quickly scooted his chair aside to make room for another person at the computer.

  “See?” he said, pointing to the monitor. “Those questions look a lot like yours. Might be a long shot, but I think your boy is in Vegas.”

  Chapter Four

  Liz sat down at her laptop, which she’d set up on a makeshift desk in her bedroom after her “roomies” moved in. The two women had assured her they were comfortable sharing a room, but Liz preferred privacy over space, so she’d moved her office into her miniscule master suite.

  She’d bought the house not for its spacious design or gracious perks, but because it was in her price range. The previous owners had just gone through a messy divorce and Liz had been at the right place at the right time. And, thanks to some first-time buyer tax credits and the fact that she had been bringing in a pretty respectable income from her job at the hospital, she’d been a loan officer’s dream client.

  Now her balance sheet didn’t look so hot. A fact that could have a negative impact on both her refinancing and the adoption. A smart person probably would hold off on the latter until the former was squared away, she told herself. But mothers didn’t always think with their heads, she’d heard Yetta say just recently to Kate.

  Liz wasn’t a mother…yet. But she felt like one. Even though her daughter was a half a world away.

  She typed in her password then clicked on a shortcut link to her favorite place: Sha Navanti Ashram and Orphanage. Weekly, Jyoti, Liz’s friend and mentor, e-mailed photos to the ashram’s U.S. sponsors, who maintained the Web site and conducted fund-raising efforts on behalf of the children. Normally, the ashram cared for the children for the entire length of their childhood, giving them a loving home and an education in a group setting, without allowing for adoption. Parents of the children were welcome to visit at any time.

  When Liz first arrived at the facility in the Haridwar district of India, some two hundred kilometers northeast of Delhi, she hadn’t understood or appreciated the rationale behind the policy. But as she worked with the fifty or so children living at the ashram, she began to see that their parents had presented them with a chance to be healthy, safe and cared for in a warm, communal setting. The older children helped to care for the younger kids. All of the students learned skills that would benefit them once they reentered the real world.

  Liz knew that she, a single woman of moderate means, would have had little hope of adopting a perfectly healthy India-born child. Even a special-needs child would be placed in a two-parent home first, but Liz had felt such a powerful connection to Prisha from the moment she’d taken over the infant’s care, she’d begun to dream of bringing her home to the United States where Prisha could get the medical help she needed.

  Liz knew that many babies were born with a slight intoeing—a condition commonly called “pigeon toes.” But Prisha’s metatarsus adductus was only part of the problem. Her left leg was shorter than the right and there appeared to be some internal tibial torsion, or twisting of the bone between the knee and the ankle. Without surgery, the little girl would never be able to walk normally.

  By the time Liz left the ashram, Prisha was flourishing, although she couldn’t do many of the things babies her age were supposed to do. She could roll over, though. Quite a task considering only one foot functioned the way it was supposed to.

  Liz had watched the tiny infant—she’d been a mere five pounds at birth—first with respect, then affection, then love. Prisha never complained. Rarely cried. And always accomplished what she set out to do—no matter how tough the hurdle.

  Humming with anticipated joy, Liz quickly scanned the photos on the Web site. None included Prisha.

  “That’s odd,” she murmured, switching screens to access her e-mail. Prisha was such a sweet-natured baby that all of the older girls loved to carry her with them, including her in their games, contests and even school lessons.

  Twenty-nine e-mail messages were waiting for her. Not surprising since Grace copied Liz on every stupid joke currently surfing the Net. As usual, Liz deleted them without reading any. She did stop to check out any notes Grace included. One missive said: “Since you’ve turned into such a cat lover, I thought you’d like these shots.”

  Liz quickly scanned the attached photos. “Oh, Grace, you’re such a soft-hearted boob.” After a second of consideration, Liz selected two shots to print. They were cute photos, and Reezira loved kittens. Which explained how two felines had found their way into Liz’s household.

  Liz had never owned a pet of any kind as an adult. When you traveled as much as she did, the idea sounded selfish. She didn’t plan to get a pet until after Prisha was completely and officially hers.

  As the printer did its thing, she scrolled down the list of new messages until she found one from Jyoti. She clicked on it.

  My dear friend, may all be well with you. I have news that will concern you, but please don’t let it alarm you too much. Our darling Prisha is ill. A fever has been traveling through the ashram. It’s accompanied by pain in the limbs and some vomiting. A volunteer doctor from Delhi has visited and declared that nothing can be done except to keep the children hydrated and warm. Which we are doing, of course. I will do my best to keep you informed of how she is doing, but for now I must rush away to help with the many. Namaste, J.

  A chill passed through her. Her rational mind leapfrogged about: Kids get sick all the time. She’ll bounce back right away. There’s nothing you could do even if you were there. She’ll be fine.

  But dark thoughts quickly followed. Prisha was under-weight for her age. She wasn’t able to move around and exercise so her lungs weren’t as strong as they should be. She’d been prone to sinus infections since birth. She nee
ded someone to put eucalyptus oil in a vaporizer and rock her until her breathing eased. She needed a mother. She needed Liz.

  “I BROUGHT YOUR MONEY.”

  David looked over his shoulder. He’d finished his work for the day and was just cleaning up his tools. He’d been so lost in thought remembering the slightly rueful twist to Liz’s smile that he hadn’t even heard the head of the homeowners’ association walk up.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Well, it was some problem,” she corrected herself. “I know you prefer cash, but the association works on a two-signature check system. The last time I did this, the bank objected to our making the check out for cash, so this time I had to get Roxanne, our treasurer, to make it out to me, then I cashed it. I just hope nobody accuses me of embezzlement.”

  He counted the twenties then stuffed them into the deep pocket of his coveralls. He’d first adopted the style of clothing as a sort of camouflage. Within days of his arrival in Vegas, he’d observed that a certain age group, namely men over sixty, favored the one-piece jumpsuit. He’d figured by assuming the dress code of the retired set, he’d look older. And be less visible. Since then, he’d discovered the clothing was also practical for the climate: loose fitting to allow for movement of air.

  “I’ll give you a receipt.”

  She actually looked relieved when he suggested it. Normally, he was reluctant to put his signature on anything, but he figured he could forge his made-up name pretty well after four years. Funny, he thought, how long old habits, like signing your name a certain way, stay with a person.

  He walked to the cab of the truck and opened the glove compartment. The hinge was bad and its long, lingering squeak sounded like nails on a blackboard.

  “Ooh, that’s awful. You should oil it.”

  He knew that. But he figured the sound would alert him if anyone tried to poke around in his truck.

  He pulled a pen from his chest pocket and opened his two-copy receipt book to a fresh page. After sliding the cardboard protector sheet into place, he printed the name of the association and the amount she’d given him, then shifted the tablet to the left to remind himself that the signature he was signing should read David Baines. He added just enough flourishes to render it virtually illegible.